


The Greatest Treasure

by forcetenhurricane



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: P.S.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcetenhurricane/pseuds/forcetenhurricane
Summary: Post 5x24, because who could leave it like that?





	The Greatest Treasure

The sharp click of her heels echoed and mixed with the other sounds of the hospital as she made her way down the hall. Rhythmic sounds. The steady beeps of the monitors and machines, the sounds of people at work.

The door to his room was cracked slightly, and as she quietly opened it further and peered in, she caught his sleeping form.

Relief flowed in palpable waves as she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She had thought Tyus Willcox was behind the mess back at the brownstone. Now she realized she’d been so shocked and scared she hadn’t noticed the fight was contained to just Sherlock's room. A struggle had occurred, but there were no indications of an intruder. There were no scuff marks, no blood that she noticed, just glass. Lots of it, and wood shards, torn paper, and odd array of items that seemed out of place to her though she couldn't explain why. The chair was on the sofa… so much glass.

She quietly walked in and caught a glimpse of his chart. She picked it up and flipped through the pages. "Headaches. Dizziness. Confusion. Forgetfulness. Somnolence.”

She couldn't remember ever, in their many years together, him purposefully seeking sleep. He would only ever succumb to it on occasion. He never actively sought it. He never 'went to bed.'

Hallucinations.

That would explain the mess of his bedroom.

It all came back to her. All the things she had missed before; not just the sleeping but the way he kept rubbing at his forehead and temple. The way he had been withdrawn from not just the case(s) but from everything, from her, in a way she hadn't seen since his relapse. It had seemed that a relapse was the obvious answer but there was much more to it than that.

 

She flipped the page. The radiologist's report said the MRI was inconclusive. His brain looked like any other brain. No indications of swelling or an anomaly of any kind. The possibilities seemed endless. A concussion from Shinwell's attack came to mind. When did Sherlock's sleeping start? His behavioral changes had been slow, subtle, but ones she should have noticed.

Cancer? That would show up on the MRI. He just didn't seem sick to her. Not in that way. 

Dementia? Alzheimer's? The list grew as the seconds passed. She flipped another page to find his intake form. His handwriting always stood out to her, she'd seen it so often. It looked hurried here to her. “Memory Loss" I forgot, he had said, and it seemed like such an impossibility that all it did was fuel her rage. You could remember how many stars there were in the sky that night.

"Watson?" he asked quietly, squinting at the light.

She looked up from the chart, and the pain was written all over his face. The squint. The set of his jaw, held tighter than normal. His normal stiff awkwardness replaced with the stiff look of discomfort.

"I'm sorry." It came out in unison. 

They were both so sorry.

A hint of smile played at his lips as she flipped off the light near his bed. His face relaxed as the tension left his eyes and forehead. And some left her in response. Ebb and flow. She breathed in. He was here. Alive. Their partnership was bruised but intact.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. Her voice sounded small to her.

"I should have. I'm sorry. You had other things on your mind." It had hurt her to admit that it was true, though she’d had reason to be preoccupied. How could I miss this? “And I was unsure of what to tell you. Honestly, Watson, I was doing things I had no memory of. I was afraid to tell you because I didn't understand…" his voice trailed off.

"I should have noticed" she said in response. She held his eyes, pride losing out over the need for him to know that she held herself responsible. She always did when it came to him. He is her responsibility, her partner. Hers.

"When did you first notice the symptoms?" she said stepping closer. She sat on the edge of his bed.

'I had a headache, after…" he didn't say the name.

"Shinwell" she finished for him.

"It morphed from there. My dead mother made an appearance." He expected some kind of reaction to that but her eyes only offered understanding. "And it just got more strange from there. I thought I was losing my mind, Watson."

"You aren't, though. All of these symptoms, every one, can by explained by a concussion. And it might not show up on an MRI.”

He sighed wearily, unable to muster the enthusiasm to argue. She was right. The MRI showed nothing unusual. He likely wasn't losing his mind, just losing touch with what was happening with his mind.

She got up to turn the blinds down and darken the room a bit more and his eyes seemed to close at the same rate the room darkened.

He was exhausted. It was coming off him in waves, filling the room. She felt the same.

His breathing slowed and with his eyes shut his other senses perked up and he smelled her familiar floral bath wash she'd been using since that sale at the corner pharmacy last month. It smelled vaguely of peaches, not her normal preference of a mild floral mix. (Gardenias remind him of his childhood, the good parts. Sunny days on the lawn. Lemonade.)

"I'm sorry about the mess back home."

"I thought Tyus Wilcox did that. I was on my way to take them all down single-handedly when I got your text."

"I have no doubt you would have won that one, Watson."

"What happened back at the brownstone?" her voice softened.

"I don't remember all of it. There was a fire. My mother was trapped inside… He closed his eyes for a moment, shuddering at the memory of her screams. "I had to get to her. And then I woke up on the floor. There was glass everywhere. I knew I was the cause but I still can't recall all the details. I was afraid I might do harm."

"It will come back, you know… your memory, with proper recovery. The headaches should subside with rest." She said as she sat back down on the bed.

"I'm sorry I forgot about Shinwell's service. I truly intended to meet you there. I do not understand the method to this concussion, or whatever it is.”

"Shhh. We're both sorry. That's all that matters.” she reached out and laid her hand on his carefully, not wanting to make it awkward, but needing that connection with him. He didn't flinch as her fingers touched the top of his hand so she took it in hers, gripping lightly. His long fingers twitched in response but he didn't pull away.

The feeling was so new to her. Touching him. Feeling his warmth, on purpose, because she sought it (his touch had only ever comes to her in dreams, sometimes nightmares). His hand closed around hers softly and there was comfort, forgiveness, and a renewing of their bond in that simple gesture. Something avoided for various not unimportant reasons throughout the partnership.

Sometimes it's the gestures they avoid while trying to protect themselves (their feelings) that have the most potential to make them stronger.

"I don't ever want to do this without you, Sherlock. I'm terrible at saying it, I know… but you mean the world to me and our partnership, our friendship, is the greatest treasure in my life."

"We should try harder to not try so hard to protect each other. I feel so alone when I keep things from you, Watson."

This time the grip on his hand was strong and sure.

They were stronger.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic and for amindamazed (hophophop) and NairobiWonders. Thanks to you both for the encouragement. This fandom is truly the greatest treasure. <3 And thanks to amindamazed for the beta! Your rock.


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